


all my girlfriends!

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: A little bit of possessiveness., Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, It's just AkaTaka ft. Beckman, It's just foreplay! I only write foreplay., M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Sighhsss., Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: The firm elbow to Benn’s solar plexus isn’t something he’d really expected.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Benn Beckmann, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Dracule Mihawk, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Dracule Mihawk/Benn Beckman, Get ready for a tag that's never been used before!
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	all my girlfriends!

Shanks moans, unabashed as always, when teeth find the tight muscle of his trapezius, dig deep through inflamed flesh and work their way around knots with the cleave of unrelenting bone. Beckman chuckles against his skin, gives his tongue a couple little teasing flicks as he does so, and the feel of warm breath and wet tongue over the bite makes Shanks pulls his shoulders up with a happy shake of his hands in a gesture of elation, smile wide. Mihawk covers his mouth with a hand, averts his eyes with a flush. Shanks reaches out, almost childishly, Beckman’s hands crossed over his hips in a seemingly chaste hug-- could you ignore the way his hips are pressed flush to the others and the cross of his wrists seem to incidentally frame the tent in his pants, which makes Mihawk swallow hard--to keep him from falling off the bed in his eagerness to have fingers on pale skin. 

Again, a chuckle from Beckman, then a tilt of the head, baring of wind-roughened skin to beckon Mihawk onto the bed. Mihawk drinks this in, takes a deep breath which seems to draw his whole body back before tipping it forward just a little bit, reminiscent of the regal breath of some large, wild cat, lids low and gaze lifted to Shanks’ face and, oh, that’s quite cute, Beckman thinks. And then Mihawk smiles, eager and private, barely-there, and it’s Shanks’ turn to steady his first mate at his back with a grind of his hips. 

“Fuck,” the word ghosts over the nape of Shanks’ neck, soft enough to not disturb the hair hanging there. His chest swells with pride. 

“I know, right?” The first mate can nearly see the excited, smug glint in his captain’s eye, so he rewards him with another sharp bite, which he sighs at. Mihawk disregards the little display, crawling on his hands toward the pirates on the bed, taking Shanks’ knees in a steady grip that leaves him winded. Benn smiles, slipping his hands from his captain’s hips and between his thighs to part them for Mihawk (who shoots him another smile which makes the blood pound between his eyes), the sound of skin sliding over cloth quiet enough to draw rousing excitement from the triad. The manhandling makes the redhead’s shoulders jump again, his tongue slip from the corner of his mouth with his wild grin, which the warlord surges up to meet with his mouth. They kiss, deep and soft, Mihawk’s lids lowered and Shanks bracing himself hard against the wall of muscle Beckman makes for him with the engagement of his abdomen. He cups his jaw, skirts chipped nails over the sharp cut of the swordsman’s jaw, aching to kiss him again. 

“I want another kiss,” he mutters, right up against his ear, just for Mihawk. He bucks a little in his first mate’s grip so he can feel the splay of his fingers digging into his inner thighs through fabric articulated like a brand, hot and unyielding. Beckman parts his legs just a little more, and Mihawk swivels his knee between them, just out of reach for Shanks to grind needily against. 

“I’d kiss you all day if I could, Hawkeye,” he presses the words into Mihawk’s skin with a kiss, to the joint of his jaw, pressing right into his ear, the warlord’s carefully trimmed sideburns abrupt and rough against his lips. His head tilts away from Shanks’ mouth, almost submissive, and his eyes find Beckman’s steely grey over his (distractingly bare, vulnerable pink and dusted with freckles from the sun) shoulder. He startles a little at this, the liquid adoration in Hawkeye’s gaze, the utter regard for his captain. He thinks he begins to understand, just a little. And then-- he huffs a little laugh, right through his nose, something he’d never seen the swordsman do (he supposes he’d never seen much, exterior thick with frost and a nearly tangible impasse), and dips forward, right over his captain’s shoulder to kiss him.

The firm elbow to Benn’s solar plexus isn’t something he’d really expected.

“Sorry, sorry!” his captain is spluttering, laughing in surprise between the fingers splayed over his mouth with his eyes wide and vulnerable with apology. Beckman simply leans back, groaning, his own eyes squeezed tight as he rides out the ache, the blow sharp and sudden with the weight of impulsivity behind it. His boner flags a little at his captain’s back, and he pinches his thighs through his pants hard enough to bruise. Mihawk is snickering, real quiet, and he slides off with a fond almost-smile. 

“Not used to sharing,” he laughs into his hands, unable to school the grin splitting his face. Mihawk, from where he stands at the bedside, presses a palm to Shanks’ shoulder to give him a shove (sweaty on dry palms, making his eyebrow and mouth twitch upwards). He’s flushing, looking away pointedly and again, Beckman’s brain offers him  _ cutecutecute. _ As if he can feel the thought, his gaze goes sharp, and the clunk of his boots being yanked up echoes in the quarters. 

Benn sits up from where he’d been reclining, Shanks still seated comfortably between his parted legs, and slides one of his palms from the inside of Shanks’ thigh to his knee, the other reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind his ear. 

“You don’t think,” Beckman drops his voice to a coarse whisper, lets the tone drag against the bottom of the smoke-stained column of his throat in a rasp, lips glancing the shell of Shanks’ ear with each word, “it’s worth trying, cap’n?” He draws a slow, tight circle over the cotton draping over the redhead’s knee with his thumb. 

And, ah, it’s enough, Shanks pinning Mihawk with a hungry gaze that makes him narrow his eyes, flush tracing the articulated lines of his abdomen and up into his cheeks, stark on pale, unmarked skin. He continues pulling his boots grudgingly, sharp jerks of his fingers as if he’s forcing each motion; Beckman thinks the breadth of responses his captain can pull from the shichibukai is absolutely wonderful. 

Conqueror’s Haki ripples in the air, and the urge to smack Shanks upside the head gets smothered when the swordsman lets his hands drop to his sides and takes a step towards the bed.

“ _ Akagami _ ,” says Mihawk, cool and even, just a touch reprimanding and withering into a hiss on the last syllable. 

“Dracule,” Shanks grins, stretching his lone arm outwards, and Benn suddenly feels very, very small, as if he shouldn’t be there. He’s not bitter, rather grateful, overwhelmed with the warm stirrings of adoration in his gut over the display of trust his captain has in him (and by extension, that which this man, Hawkeye Mihawk, the shichibukai and uncontested strongest swordsman in the world, puts in him. He thinks whatever solid metal is sitting low in his stomach and melting is pride.) 

It’s not important, though, when Shanks brings them all back to rhythm with a deliberate roll of his hips, Mihawk’s calloused fingers clutched in his and his first mate’s mouth on his throat. Beckman’s parting Shanks’ knees again and the other swordsman fills the gap, pressing kisses to the other side of his neck. He gives their tight knit fingers a squeeze and Shanks swallows hard, a jump in his throat the both of them can feel, pressing stubble to Mihawk’s parted lips and brushing red hair over Beckman’s high cheekbones. 

The swordsman rolls his head onto his shoulder and tips forward to press a kiss into Beckman’s sharp hairline. He supposes that’s all he’ll get so he laughs breathily, right into Shanks’ skin which draws forth a shiver, and lifts his hand to brush fingertips over the crotch of Mihawk’s pants--lilac fabric slipping through his fingers like water, is finer and softer than the coarse cotton of Shanks’ pants, a happy little counterpoint. Mihawk lifts his eyes to meet others, and Beckman’s grin is so like his captain’s that his ribs crumble a little into the pit of his stomach, pooling easily with slow licking lust. 

Benn pops the button with a practiced ease, drawing his other hand in to the seam of his captain’s legs to get them gasping in unison, which he chuckles at. He thinks of the displays he’s been granted, the private little half-smiles, the smoldering looks he’d happened upon, their fingers, still twined to press their palms flush even as Mihawk reaches down to run reverent fingers along the seam of his pants. He’ll give as good as he gets. 

**Author's Note:**

> Me, halfway through writing this: Hold on! I don't actually care about writing this. kjhgfvhjbnk.
> 
> I actually decided I didn't have to write this like. 700 words in and it STILL got longer. LOL. I think I had a very specific vision for this piece but I lost it because I took a huge break inbetween, lol. Maybe I'll rewrite this later, whatever. 
> 
> Leave me a comment or something! I really appreciate it.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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